


Birds of a Feather

by lightspire



Category: due South
Genre: Aquariums, Baby Animals, Chicago (City), First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Third Person Limited, Panic Attacks, Penguins, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sexual Fantasy, Whales
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-09-16 11:18:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16953003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightspire/pseuds/lightspire
Summary: A pair of male penguins at the aquarium have adopted a foster chick. Fraser and Ray go to see it, but while there, they discover something else entirely.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> One scene features a main character having a panic attack, but they are comforted and supported through it. Please avoid reading this story if a description of a panic attack may upset or trigger you.
> 
> Only one (shower) scene pushes this fic into E territory; the rest of it is T/M; it's mostly all fluffy and sweet.

Three guys in Star Trek costumes sit handcuffed to the bench on the far side of the bullpen. Ray barely gives them a passing glance — for once the crazies are not his circus, not his monkeys, and not his problem. They’re Huey’s case, Huey’s problem, and it serves him right for always giving Ray a hard time. Karma’s a bitch, baby. 

For today, at least, Ray is busy with an ordinary case — a rash of stolen goods — nothing with weirdos, nothing life-or-death.

He’s really looking forward to his day off tomorrow, because he doesn’t have anything heavy weighing on his mind. Ray hasn’t decided what to do with the day yet — maybe go hit a bag at the gym, or follow Fraser around awhile, keep him out of trouble, if such a thing is possible. Keep it low-key and simple. He just wants to kick back and enjoy not having to deal with nutcases in strange outfits.

Speaking of nutcases in strange outfits, Fraser should be here by now.

Ray glances around the bullpen but sees no sign of the Mountie. He wonders what his partner’s gotten himself into now — hopefully nothing too dramatic. Probably just stopped to help a dozen old ladies cross the street or something.

“Hey, Ray!” It’s Francesca’s voice. He can hear it all the way across the room. “Did you hear? The aquarium’s gay penguins — you know, Oscar and Forster? They hatched an egg!”

He walks towards her desk carrying a grimy manila folder, rubbing the corner with his thumb to blot out the fresh coffee ring. The rubbing just makes things worse, smearing the coffee into a wet blob instead of a circle.

“So?” he asks. Not this again. She’d been on about the penguins for days now.

“So, you should go see the chick, it’s adorable.” When Ray gets close to her, she points her pen at him for emphasis. “You  _ have _ to go see it.”

He drops the file on her desk and hopes she doesn’t notice the wet smudges.

“Frannie, I don’t have time to see penguins, not even gay ones.” He taps on the folder, “I got too much work on my plate. You know, that thing we supposedly get paid to do?”

“What of it?”

“I need you to look up a fence, name of Chuck Clancy.”

Francesca cocks an eyebrow, holds her hand out, palm up, wiggles her fingers. “And?”

Ray sighs, spits out a grudging “ _ Please _ .” It’s times like these he misses Elaine.

“Better.” She picks up the folder. “I never pegged you as a homophobe,” she says, and lowers her chin. A challenge.

“I’m not.” Ha. If she only knew.... “It’s just, I don’t care too much about penguins. If there was a baby turtle, maybe.... Now — the fence?” he jabs a finger towards her computer. “Preferably sometime this year?”

“You have no soul, you know that?” She examines the folder, a look of revulsion on her face. “Ew, is that coffee? You’re disgusting —  _ Bro _ .”

“I do my best,  _ Sis, _ ” he sneers at her. He turns to go back to his desk and plows into Fraser, who is standing right behind him.

“Jeezus! You startled me. Don’t you ever knock?”

Fraser makes a fist and taps Ray gently on the side of his head with his knuckles.

“Knock knock.”

Francesca giggles. Ray scowls. “Ha ha. Very funny.”

“What were you saying about penguins, Francesca?” Fraser asks, and her eyes light up.

Ray’s jaw tenses and he chomps hard on his toothpick. Frannie’s eyes never light up like that when she looks at him. Which, he concedes, is just as well given that they’re pretending to be siblings, but that doesn’t mean he has to like it.

“There’s a baby penguin at the aquarium,” she says, her voice dripping honey. “You should go see it. Maybe with a friend.” She casually points to herself with a manicured fingernail. “I promise it’ll be worth your while.” She gives Fraser a look that even a dead man couldn’t ignore. No subtlety there.

“That’s an excellent suggestion, Francesca. I’ve never seen live penguins before.” Her face beams, but before she can celebrate, Fraser turns to face Ray, smiles at him like he’s just found a sack of fresh pemmican, and says, “Let’s go see them, Ray.”

Yes! Ray can’t help himself — he breaks into a wide grin. Francesca lets out a huff and rolls her eyes. He’s won this round, but his smile doesn’t last.

“Wait, what?” Ray crinkles his forehead, confused. “You’ve never seen penguins? I thought you people in the Northwest Areas ate them for breakfast.”

“It’s Territories, Ray,” Fraser corrects him for the hundredth time.

Ray smirks. He wonders when Fraser will figure out that he only keeps saying “Areas” just to annoy him.

“You’re thinking of puffins,” Fraser says. He purses his lips and puffs out his cheeks. He’s probably trying to imitate a puffin but he just looks ridiculous. “We don’t eat puffins, well, not anymore, because they’re protected under the Canadian Migratory Birds Convention Act, nor do we eat penguins for that matter, because there are no penguins up north, except in captivity. Penguins are  _ Ant _ arctic. That’s the  _ South _ pole. I think it would behoove us to go see them.”

“Behoove us. Yeah, right.” Nice try, Frase.

Fraser is practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Besides, there’s a beluga I want to say hello to there as well, and seeing as tomorrow is our day off….” He raises his eyebrows, pleading without words.

Ray lifts his hands in surrender and shakes his head. “OK, OK. We’ll go tomorrow. The things I do....”

 

###

 

“Do the ‘Penguin Encounter’ tour,” Francesca had told him. “It’s totally worth it,” she’d insisted. “They let you pet a penguin.”

So here he is, Fraser right behind him, waiting in line to buy Penguin Encounter tickets. Fraser won’t shut up about the penguins, keeps calling it a “once in a lifetime opportunity.” Ray goes along with it, forks over the extra dough, but only because Fraser seems so damned excited about it. Like a little kid.

Half an hour later, Fraser stands next to Ray inside the penguin habitat, so close that the edges of their boots touch. Heat is radiating off him, but Ray’s not complaining — it’s freaking cold in here. Frosty air swirls around inside the stone and concrete building, stings his cheeks and burns the tip of his nose. The cold doesn’t seem to be bugging Fraser in the least. If anything, he’s loving it.

Water drips from the ceiling. An icy-cold drop falls, splat, into Ray’s hair. He rubs the top of his head, annoyed. Another drop lands on his cheek.

“Damn it.” He wipes his face with the cuff of his shirt, staining the dark fabric.

“Perhaps you should consider wearing a hat, Ray,” Fraser touches the brim of his Stetson.

“Perhaps you should consider shutting up, Fraser.” It’s bad enough that Fraser isn’t cold or wet — he’s being smug about it, too.

“Understood.”

The nesting area is in an adjacent room, separated from where they stand by thick, fogged up windows. Inside, a pair of male Rockhopper penguins is feeding their foster chick.

“It l-looks like they’re throwing up on a f-fuzzy t-tennis ball.” Ray’s teeth chatter. “T-that’s really g-gross.”

“It may appear revolting to you, perhaps, but regurgitated fish is the preferred food of....” Fraser stops mid-lecture. “You’re shivering,” he says, his voice dark with concern.

“No shit, Sherlock. It’s freezing in here.”

Ray rubs his hands together, blows into his cupped palms, tucks his fingers into his armpits, tries everything he can think of to warm up but nothing’s working because he’s dressed only in a thin button-down shirt and trousers. He didn’t think to bring a coat and now he’s freezing his nuts off, surrounded by birds.

“Well, naturally, the penguin habitat is below freezing,” says Fraser, who, as always, has come prepared and is wearing a leather jacket over his flannel shirt and jeans. “They are adapted to subzero conditions, after all.”

And there he goes, making Ray feel stupid and incompetent again. Nice.

“Would you like to leave?” Fraser asks.

Ray shakes his head no, hugs himself tightly, rubs his upper arms against the biting cold. “I p-paid good m-money to pet a p-penguin and I’m gonna p-pet a penguin.”

Fraser takes off his jacket and wraps it around Ray’s shoulders.“I suspected something like this might occur and brought this for you. I don’t actually need it.”

Great. The jacket was for him all along. Ray’s more than a little annoyed that Fraser has one-upped him again on the Proper Preparation thing. So now he gets to feel grateful, stupid, and like a total asshat, all at the same time. Fraser has a way of twisting his head into knots like that.

There’s nothing to say but, “Thanks.”

Ray slides his arms into the sleeves, pulls up the front zip. The jacket is toasty warm from Fraser’s body heat and it’s good, great even — almost as good as a Fraser-hug. It smells like him too — leather, wool, lavender soap and a hint of dog. Wolf-dog. Whatever. At least it covers up the smells of bird poop and fish that fill the room, so that’s a bonus.  

“Better?”

“Much.”

Ray rests a hand on Fraser’s broad shoulder, leans towards the window to see better, and squints. He’d given up on his glasses a few minutes earlier because they kept fogging up, so squinting would have to do.

There’s a pile of smooth black pebbles in the middle of the nesting room. One of the daddy Rockhoppers picks up a stone in its beak, waddles over to the other daddy penguin, and offers it to him. The second penguin takes the pebble and drops it on the stone circle that forms their nest.

“Did that one just give the other one a rock?”

“Yes, Ray, he did. What we just witnessed is the penguin equivalent of a proposal. If the first penguin offers a stone and the second penguin accepts it, they become a couple and build a nest together.”

“Two dads, huh? Who knew?” Ray taps on the glass, trying to get the birds’ attention.

“Same-sex pair bonding is surprisingly common throughout the animal kingdom,” Fraser says in that tone of voice he uses when he’s about to launch into one of his stories. “I recall two Pine Martens that cohabited in a giant spruce just outside of....” Ray, barely listening to Fraser, taps on the glass again.  “Ray. Ray. Don’t do that.” Fraser jerks his chin towards the “Please Do Not Tap on the Glass” sign. He grabs Ray’s hand, pulling it away from the window.

Fraser’s skin is shockingly warm.

“Your hand is trembling,” Fraser says. He rubs Ray’s hand between his palms and blows warm air onto his skin. When Fraser’s lips brush Ray’s fingertips, goosebumps prickle the back of his arm and it’s not from the cold.

He jerks away from Fraser’s grasp. “Sorry.” He’s not exactly sure what he’s apologizing for, just that his mind is reeling, going places it should never, ever go, like wondering how those lips would feel on other parts of his body. He shoves his hands deep inside the pockets of the jacket to still them, his fingertips buzzing.

“It’s not me to whom you should be apologizing.”

“What?” Ray’s thoughts wrench back to the present.

Fraser gestures towards the penguins. “They’re very sensitive. You don’t want to upset that adorable little family, do you?”

Right. He’s talking about birds. Focus on the birds. “Seriously? You want me to apologize to a couple of penguins?”

“It would be the right thing to do.”

The guilt, oh, the guilt. “Sorry birds,” Ray whispers.

Finally it’s their turn to pet a penguin. It’s a Gentoo, the handler tells them. It looks like a standard black and white penguin, not like the funny Rockhopper daddies with the yellow whiskers. Ray crouches down and touches it gently on the back.

“Hey little fella. How’s the fish?” The penguin honks. Ray laughs. “That good, huh?”

Fraser smiles and takes his turn to pet the penguin.

“Who’s a good penguin then? You are. Yes you are.” The penguin lets out a string of loud calls and honks. “Well, thank you kindly. It was lovely to meet you too.”

Fraser is totally in his element — freezing cold and talking to animals. In other words, happy. It’s nice to see him that way, for a change.

The tour ends. Fraser thanks the handler in that polite way he always does, then it’s out of the habitat and back into the hallway, away from the wet, the animal smells, and the cold. It feels good to be warm again.

“Have you been here before?” Fraser asks, looking around. He cranes his neck to take in the ceiling, the walls, the crowds, the bright signs full of ‘Fascinating Facts about Penguins’. A squealing group of kids swarms around their legs, fighting for space at the windows. Little noses and fingers press against the glass, leaving foggy breath marks and greasy smudges in a line at knee height. “I never really went to zoos as a child.”

“You grew up in a zoo, Fraser. A giant, Canada-sized zoo. Raised by polar bears.” Ray can’t resist teasing Fraser — it’s just too easy.

“Actually I was reared by a pack of wolves,” Fraser deadpans, giving as good as he gets. “Well, five wolves, and a lynx.”

Ray’s mouth curls into a smile at the wisecrack. Not everybody gets to see this side of Fraser. If they do, it means he really trusts them.

“I thought you said you were raised by librarians.”

“Whom I can assure you were completely human. Admittedly, my Uncle Tiberius was of questionable parentage but we don’t need to explore that at this juncture.”

“I used to go to the zoo with Stella,” Ray says. His shoulders slump, weighed down by the pain of yet another good memory turned sour. He rolls his foot, drops his chin, scuffs his boot on the floor. “Only…. She always wanted to see the lions. That should’ve been a big red flag.”

“How so?”

Ray looks back up at Fraser, shifts his weight. “Well, you know what they say — birds of a feather flock together. Stella, she’s a lion person. Me, I’m a turtle person. I shoulda known things wouldn’t work out.”

The signs were there all along, if he’d only been smart enough to see them. If he were being honest with himself, he  _ had _ seen the signs, just didn’t want to admit it until it was too late.

“I sincerely doubt that’s the reason you’re no longer together Ray, but I understand your point.” Fraser grows quiet for a moment, thoughtful, studying the penguins through the glass. “If your assertion is correct, what does that make us?”

Ray follows Fraser’s gaze towards the Rockhopper pair with their chick, and a rush of heat warms his cheeks. “Um...yeah, Never mind. It’s just a stupid metaphor.”

“Idiom.”

Ray lowers his eyebrows. “Did you just call me an idiot?”

“Of course not, Ray. I said idiom. ‘Birds of a feather flock together’ is an idiom — an expression.”

“That’s what I said.”

“Indeed.”

 

###

 

The main aquarium building is huge, noisy, and full of weird animals in tanks that line the walls. Fraser stops to have a conversation with a giant Pacific octopus because he’s Fraser, and it’s exactly the kind of thing Fraser would do. At least he’s only talking to it and not trying to lick it. Fraser waves at it, and it wiggles a purple tentacle at him.

The octopus fixes Ray with an unblinking eye, and he shudders.  “Those things give me the creeps,” he says. “They look at you like they know things.”

“Maybe you give her the creeps. Have you ever considered that?”

“No, course not.”

“Perhaps you should.”

“For Pete’s sake, Fraser — I do  _ not _ spend my nights wondering what octopuses think of me. Women? Frequently. But octopuses? Never.”  _ You? All the damn time. _

And Ray does think about Fraser. A lot. Ever since that stupid ship. Ever since Fraser had saved his life in a way that felt like something so much more. 

Ray had tried to forget it, that kiss-which-wasn’t, and all the new and complicated feelings it had ignited. Really, he had. When forgetting failed he’d tried to drink it away, fight and sweat it out, even fuck it out of his system. But he’d had to face facts: Fraser had gotten through the cracks in Ray’s soul and stayed there. And now this damned freaky octopus was looking at him like it knew, like it could read his mind or something. 

“Your loss, Ray.”

Ray makes an exasperated noise in the back of his throat and shakes his head. 

“You’re both freaks, you know that?”

An Alligator Snapping Turtle in a nearby tank draws Fraser’s attention. It’s the size of a kitchen sink, with a nasty looking sharp beak.

“Speaking of freaks,” Ray points, “those things can bite your toes clean off. Put your foot in the wrong place at the wrong time and,  _ snap _ !” He makes a snapping motion with his hands.

“Then it is most fortunate our feet are not in there with it.”

Ray nods. “I like my turtle better.”

“I like your turtle, too, Ray. Do you think it ever gets lonely?”

“My turtle doesn’t have feelings, Fraser. It’s a turtle.”

“I could come over and pet your turtle sometime.”

Ray chokes on his next breath. “Did you actually just say,” he lowers his voice, “you want to pet my turtle?” 

Leave it to Fraser to say something that sounds totally innocent while being completely inappropriate, and have no idea he’s doing it. 

“Yes, Ray. I would enjoy petting your turtle, if you think it would like that.”

Ray shakes his head and his cheeks burn. Fraser, oblivious as usual, has accidentally sent the conversation skating down a river of thin-ice-innuendo and it’s sending all the wrong messages to all the right, no make that all the wrong, places in Ray’s body, making them twitch. 

“Fraser, can we please not discuss petting my turtle in public?” 

If Fraser genuinely doesn’t know what “petting the turtle” means, Ray sure as hell isn’t about to explain it to him, not now, not ever. 

“What’s wrong with talking about petting your turtle, Ray? I only want to give it some affection.” 

Dear God, please, make it stop. Ray crams his hands over his ears, squeezes his eyes shut, and prays for a distraction. 

Fraser looks confused, opens his mouth to say something more, but interrupts himself.  

“Can you hear that?”

Atmospheric, New-Age synthesizer music drifts from hidden speakers somewhere nearby.

Ray uncovers his ears, listens, and nods, thankful to whatever deities designed this aquarium for providing a way out of this disaster of a conversation.

“That way,” Ray says, pointing a finger gun, and heads off, Fraser at his heels.

 

###

 

The music leads them to a vast, circular, pitch-black room in the oldest part of the aquarium. The biggest fish tank Ray has ever seen fills the middle of the room. It’s shaped like a water tank, tall and round, going all the way up to the ceiling. It’s full of colorful fish, a sea turtle, even a small shark. Crabs and shrimp crawl across the bottom and over the corals and anemones that wave in the artificial current.

“Ray!” Fraser’s eyes nearly pop out of his head. “Will you look at that — it’s a coral reef. In the middle of Chicago! They’ve even got a sea turtle.”

“Just stop it with the turtles.”

Fraser raises an eyebrow at him. “As you wish.”

Ray leans towards the tank for a better look. A large silvery fish swims in front of him and suddenly he can’t breathe. His gut clenches so hard he’s nearly retching, his face flushes with a rush of intense heat and his heart races out of control, pounding in his ears. Fraser is reaching for him, alarmed, as Ray doubles over, grabs his stomach and falls to his knees.

“Ray! What’s wrong?”

Ray can barely speak. He gestures helplessly towards the tank, gasping for breath, his hands shaking uncontrollably. 

“I,” he starts to hyperventilate, but manages to sputter, “Oh God, I think I’m dying.”

He feels woozy, like he’s going to faint. Suddenly Fraser’s there, filling his vision, an ocean of blue plaid. Then strong arms are around his torso, lifting him off the ground, holding him tight, supporting him. Fraser is a solid, warm, Mountie-sized life raft and he’s saving him. Rescuing him from drowning. Again.

Next thing Ray remembers is sitting on a padded bench in a quiet hallway by the washrooms, no idea how he got there. Fraser’s caring for him, taking his pulse, checking his eyes, his fingernails, looking him over thoroughly.

Ray hears a voice, the only voice that matters, low and unruffled, steady as the center of the earth. 

“Ray...” Fraser holds his hand tightly. Ray’s fingers are cold as ice but Fraser’s skin is hot and his grip is strong, grounding him, bringing him back to the present. “Calm down. You’re not dying. You’re having a panic attack. It will pass.” 

“How can you be so sure?” Ray croaks between ragged breaths.

“Your vital signs are fine. Just breathe. You’re fine.” 

“I sure as hell don’t feel fine. I feel dizzy.”

“I know. It will pass.” He squeezes Ray’s hand again and pats his arm.

Fraser takes long breaths in through his nose, even longer breaths out through his mouth, silently showing Ray what to do, an unshakeable beacon of calm. Ray copies him. They breathe in synch for a few minutes. Ray takes his own pulse on his neck. It’s still a little fast but slowing to normal. Thank God for that.

Ray is acutely aware that Fraser’s presence, his touch, his voice are the only things keeping him safe and sane right now, and he realizes he never wants it to stop. Even when this is over.

“Don’t leave me.”

“I’m right here, Ray. I’m not going anywhere.”

“What the hell happened?”

“I suspect the fish tank reminded you of the incident on the Henry Allen and your subconscious mind reacted with panic. I’m so sorry.”

“Jeez. I think you’re right.” Ray clutches the sides of his head and bends forward over his knees, curling into a ball. “God, I’m such a wuss.” If the panic attack didn’t kill him the embarrassment of losing his cool in public just might.

“You are not a wuss. You’re one of the bravest men I know.” Fraser gently caresses his friend’s hair, his neck, his back, soothing him. “What you are, is traumatized. I never should have brought you here.”

“You couldn’t have known I’d react like that. Hell, I didn’t know.”

Ray scrubs at his face, blows a breath out slowly. He feels betrayed by his own body, like somebody pulled the rug out from under him in a cruel imitation of a joke.

“I apologize for ever getting you into that situation on the ship. I wish I could erase those memories for you.”

“I don’t,” Ray shakes his head. “That day sucked but it was worth it.” He sits up, takes a deep breath. “In the end.” A small smile crosses his lips.

Fraser nods, his hand still resting on Ray’s back, steadying him. “I am very glad we’re still partners.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

Fraser didn’t know the half of it, how grateful Ray really was that they were still together. He hated to think about how close he’d come to losing his best friend, the friend who was here now, taking care of him like he was the most important person in the world.

“Are you feeling better?”

“Mostly.” Ray doesn’t feel like he’s dying anymore, at least. The worst of it seems to have passed but he’s still shaky and weak. He holds out a trembling hand, palm down. “I’m shaking like a leaf.”

“Your blood sugar is depleted.”

Fraser reaches his hands into the front of the leather jacket, which Ray is still wearing. When Fraser’s fingertips graze Ray’s chest through the thin fabric of his shirt, a jolt of electricity shoots down his spine and he gasps involuntarily.

“What are you doing?” Ray tries to bat Fraser’s hands away.

“Hold still.” 

Ray freezes, obedient, while Fraser sticks his hands inside the jacket again. Ray tries to mask the mixed expression of bafflement and sudden arousal on his face, but fails miserably every time Fraser touches him. He hopes Fraser is too busy with whatever he’s doing in there to notice.

Fraser fumbles around for a few seconds and finally slips his hand into the breast pocket. He pulls out a wrinkled piece of beef jerky.

“Here, eat this. It might make you feel better.”

Ray snorts with laughter, and the relief in Fraser’s eyes reveals just how worried he really was. Ray is trying very hard to ignore the fact that his chest is still tingling from the touch of Fraser’s hand. Of all the times and places to get turned on, even a tiny bit, this one was at the bottom of the list. Hell, this was so far down it was the last item on a list in a locked file folder in a dark, unused basement five counties over.

“No thanks, I’m good.” Ray pulls two small rolls of pastel-colored candy from his pants pocket.

“Ah. Rockets. An excellent source of glucose. Yes, that should help.”

“Smarties,” Ray corrects him. “You’ve been here long enough. Get it right.”

“Actually, the original name is Rockets. They were invented in Canada by the Rocket Candy Company, after all.”

“Is everyone in Canada a smartass or is that just you?”

“It’s all of us,” Fraser says, trying to lighten the mood. “It’s a requirement for maintaining our citizenship.”

Ray smiles at that. “Hey, I’ve got an idea,” he says, “they should just call them Smartasses, problem solved.” He tries to get the wrappers open but damn it, his hands are quivering so badly that he can’t untwist the ends of the plastic.

“Let me help you,” Fraser says, tucking the jerky back into the jacket and taking the rolls of Smarties. He unwraps the candy, plastic wrappers crinkling loudly. “Open,” he commands. Ray opens his mouth. Fraser’s fingertips graze Ray’s lips as he gently puts a few pieces onto his tongue.

Ray crunches the candy. “Thanks,” he mumbles. He rivets his attention on the sweets to stop himself from thinking about the brush of Fraser’s fingers on his lips and the taste of him lingering on his tongue, but his body has other ideas. A wave of heat rushes over him, pooling between his legs, and he breaks out in a sweat.

“You’re sweating,” Fraser says, stating the obvious. “That is also a natural after-effect of an anxiety attack. Not to worry, I’ve got a handkerchief.”

Fraser presses the rest of the candy into Ray’s palm, thrusts his hands inside the jacket again, rummages in the pocket.

Ray stuffs the entire handful of candy into his mouth and tries not to think about how,  _ oh God _ , Fraser’s hands are sliding over his chest, his side, his waist. Ray is sweating even more and his fried nervous system is threatening to go into overload again — until Fraser finally, mercifully, pulls out the handkerchief and offers it to him.

Ray takes it, blots his forehead. When Fraser puckers his lips and blows softly on Ray’s face to cool him, Ray squeezes his eyes shut tight. He clenches his hands into fists and tries to think of something else — the Cubs losing again, the Clancy case — anything other than the effect Fraser is having on him. He hopes beyond hope that Fraser hasn’t noticed that he is driving him crazy. He’s painfully aware of his own flushed skin and rapid breathing, not to mention that his pupils are probably dilated too — and none of that is from the panic attack, not this time, though he sure as hell prays Fraser thinks it is.

Finally, Fraser stops and Ray tentatively opens one eye, then another. Fraser is looking at him strangely. His face is no longer taught with worry, but with a mixture of affection, concern, and… surprise? Hard to tell with Fraser, master of the poker face. What had he seen? Shit, did he know?

Ray looks away, desperately seeking a diversion. He holds the left side of the jacket open, eyes the breast pocket warily.

“What else you got in here?” He asks. Realizing too late what he’s said, he backs off, fast. “No, wait, don’t tell me. I don’t wanna know.”

“Would you like some water?” Fraser holds up a plastic cup with the aquarium logo on it.

“Where’d you get that? You didn’t have that a minute ago.”

“Where I got it isn’t important. What is important is, would you like a drink?”

Ray takes the cup, grateful. He decides not to look a gift horse in the mouth. By now, he knows better than to question such things. This is Fraser, after all, the magical Mountie who always seems to have just what he needs at just the right moment. Deus ex Mountie.

They sit quietly together as Ray sips. Fraser is watching him closely. No, not watching — staring at him, like he’s never seen him before. The stare reminds Ray, for lack of a better way of putting it, of the way Stella used to look at him, way back when. Then again, he’s probably imagining things. Delusional, his brain fried by panic, and now hopped up on sugar. He finishes the last of the water and tosses the empty cup into the trash can that’s right next to the bench.

“Should we leave now?” Fraser squeezes Ray’s knee.

Ray breathes deeply. He still feels like shit. Wrung-out, turned-on shit and how bizarre is that, but he doesn’t want to think about that, let alone try to explain it to Fraser.

“No, It’s OK. I’m OK now. Let’s go see your whale.” He hopes Fraser believes the lie.

Ray’s thigh buzzes where Fraser’s hand rests, gently stroking his leg, sending another wave of heat between his legs. If they sit here much longer and Fraser keeps touching him all over like this he’s either going to have another panic attack or be sorely tempted to jump him, both of which are supremely bad options. Badness times ten.

“Are you certain?” Fraser pats Ray’s thigh again, strokes it a couple of times. Buzz buzz buzz.

Ray can’t take it anymore. A few more seconds of this and the hard-on he’s getting is going to become obvious to everyone. “Yeah.” He grabs Fraser’s hand, takes it off his leg and stuffs the crumpled handkerchief back into Fraser’s palm to cover his actions. “I’m tired and I gotta take a leak, but I’ll be fine for a few more minutes. Let’s go see the whales, then we can amscray. Just stay close, OK?”

“Of course Ray. I’m right here, as long as you need me.” They stand up together and Fraser follows him into the washroom.

Which, strangely, isn’t strange at all. It may have been long ago, but it’s a thing they do now, have done for a while, and until this second Ray hasn’t stopped to question it. His mind wheels again, and something clicks into place. Somewhere along the way they’d crossed an invisible line. It just kind of happened, and, well, here they were. Wherever “Here” was.  Over “There” was partners, friends, buddies. Over “Here” was two guys touching each other, sharing lives, sharing spaces in ways that two guys don’t usually share unless they’re both...they’re both…. He shakes his head to clear it. He needs some time to think about that, but not here, not now.

Ray turns his back on Fraser and does his business, which thankfully calms down his half-boner. Fraser watches him, leaning back against the wall, arms folded. And there it is again, the question neither of them is asking: is it weird that a guy is watching his best friend in the john, and the neither of them seems bothered by it?

Ray zips up, goes to the sink, washes his hands, splashes cold water onto his face and hair. He pushes the silver button on the hand dryer, turns the nozzle upwards and runs his fingers through the fuzz on top of his head. By the time the dryer stops, his hair feels like a wild tangle. He checks himself in the mirror. Everything on the outside matches how he feels on the inside right now — slightly hungover, rode hard and put up wet — so he rolls with it.

Fraser wraps an arm around his shoulders as they walk towards the beluga whale pool, and doesn’t let go.

“Frase, promise me something?”

“Yes, Ray?”

“Next time let me stick  _ my _ hands in  _ your _ pockets.”

Fraser cocks an eyebrow. “If you insist.”

“Of the jacket, I mean. If I’m wearing your jacket.…”

“Naturally.”

Ray’s cheeks flush again, all the way to the tips of his ears. Note to self: learn to stop talking when brain is fried.

 

###

 

“Are you comfortable with seeing the whales, Ray?” Fraser asks as they get closer to the pool.

Ray sets his shoulders, jerks his head sideways and blows out a loud breath. He can do this.

“Yeah, I got it. I’m good.”

Fraser looks at him like he’s not convinced, but nods once and keeps quiet.

They finally reach the massive enclosure where four beluga whales dart back and forth, chasing each other and playing with toys — rings, balls, knotted ropes — while crowds of people line the railings above the pool, pointing and talking. In a weird way it reminds Ray of the bullpen: busy with light and noise and too much going on to keep track of at once.

He leans over the rail and laughs when one of the whales, a light-grey female named Naya, spits water at him and makes squeaking noises through her blowhole.

“I know how she feels. Sometimes I want to spit at people, too.”

“I’d like to go downstairs,” Fraser says, gesturing to where underwater windows line one side of the tank. “Would you care to accompany me or would you prefer to stay up here?”

“I’ll go.”

Ray follows him down, but hangs back a little and leans against the wall, feeling the coolness of the concrete on his back. He can still see the solid walls, floor, and ceiling in his peripheral vision so he doesn’t feel surrounded by water. He’s a little uneasy, but so far, so good. He breathes steadily, talks to himself, reminds himself that he’s safe and Fraser’s here. He can do this. He is doing this. He pulls a stick of gum from his back pocket, unwraps the silver foil, pops the gum into his mouth, chews. The sharp smell of mint and the chewing helps him stay focused.

Fraser steps forward, presses up against the glass. An immense male beluga named Inuk dives down and swims over to look at him.

Ray tucks the gum into his cheek and whistles. “Look at the size of him!”

“Hello, Person,” Fraser says, his palm touching the glass. “Are you all right in there?”

The beluga bumps its fleshy lips, naturally curved into a permanent grin, against the window where Fraser’s hand rests.

“It’s not a person, Fraser. it’s a whale.”

“That’s his name, Ray. Inuk means ‘person’ in Inuktitut, just as Inuit means ‘people’.”

“Person, huh. Funny name for a whale.”

Inuk paddles his massive body sideways, turning so that his eye is inches from the glass, level with Fraser’s face. The human and the whale study each other for several moments. Ray wonders what they’re thinking.

“I think he likes you,” Ray says. All animals like Fraser. He’s basically Doctor Dolittle in a hat.

“Maybe. Although I’m not sure he’s happy here,” Fraser says.

“Why not? He’s a stud whale — he gets to play all day, eat free food...hell, his  _ job _ is to have sex with all the lady whales — sounds like a pretty good life to me.” Ray might seriously consider trading places with the whale if it weren’t, you know, for all the water.

“He’s trapped.” The anguish in Fraser’s voice takes Ray by surprise _. _ “They took him from his home.”

“Maybe it’s not so bad?” Ray tries to reassure him. “Like, maybe he’ll make lots of baby whales, help save them from extinction. At least he’s not being hunted...” the rest of that sentence dies in his throat when Fraser shoots him a dangerous look. Ray knows immediately that he’s crossed a line, even if he doesn’t understand what it is. And then, he gets it —  _ Fraser’s not talking about the whale. _

Fraser clenches his jaw and turns back to face the animal.

“Frase…” Ray steps forward, rests a tentative hand on his friend’s arm, wary of making things worse. “Let’s go.”

Fraser sighs, nodding agreement. He gazes at the whale one last time. “Ogguarpunga,” he says softly.

Inuk bobs his head twice in response and swims off, flipping his tail at them.

“Was that Inuit?”

“Inuktitut. Yes.”

“Inuktitut, right.” Ray’s going to try harder to remember that. Some things aren’t worth teasing Fraser about, and this is one of them because it’s something that matters to him. “What did you say to the whale?”

“I said, ‘I’m sorry’.”

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Fraser insists on taking the keys and driving Ray back to his apartment in the Goat. Ray is still feeling the aftereffects of the panic attack so he doesn’t argue, even when Fraser refuses to drive over thirty-five miles an hour.

Fraser walks him upstairs, a supportive hand on his elbow. He unlocks the door, holds it open, ushers him inside, and Ray lets him do it. Fraser returns Ray’s keys and he shoves them into his pants pocket.

Ray even lets Fraser take the jacket and hang it up, but when he tries to help Ray take off his boots, he stops him.

“Enough, Fraser, I’m not helpless.”

He’s been enjoying the attention until now, but this is getting embarrassing. Ray pulls off his own boots and collapses onto the couch.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t be more comfortable in your bed? A rest might prove beneficial.”

‘Fraser’ and ‘your bed’ are two thoughts that shouldn’t be allowed near each other. And, of course, now they are and Ray is picturing just that, and.…

“Ray? Are you sure you’re all right?”

Fraser’s looking worried again. Ray cannot even begin to imagine what his own face looks like now, and he blushes, shaking his head.

“You sound like my mom.”

Ray stretches out on the sofa, reaches for the  _ Ringworld _ magazine on the coffee table and puts it on his lap to hide the growing bulge. His body and brain are conspiring to betray him a lot today, it seems.

“This is fine,” Ray says. “I can’t sleep during the day anyway.” He pushes himself backwards into the couch cushions as far as he can go, trying to disappear into them.

Fraser picks up the soft blanket that’s draped over the arm of the sofa, covers Ray with it, and tucks one end under his feet. He disappears into Ray’s kitchen and reappears a minute later carrying a glass of water. He moves to set it down on the table, and not finding a coaster, pulls the handkerchief from his pocket, folds it with one hand into a perfect square (how  _ does _ he do that?), and finally sets the glass atop the cloth on the table.

“Thanks,” Ray says, blinking sleepily, “but you really don’t have to do all this.”

“It’s no trouble Ray. I want to.”

Fraser claims a chair near the couch, sits back, folds his hands, and watches him. He’s got that strange expression on his face again, the one Ray had only ever seen on Stella. Something’s shifted between them, he’s sure of it, though exactly what, he really doesn’t know and is kind of afraid to ask. They should probably talk. Maybe later. Maybe never.

Ray yawns, barely able to keep his eyelids open, more exhausted than he’d realized from the trip and the anxiety attack.

“It’s not your fault….” Ray says, babbling now. The last thing he sees as he drifts off to sleep is Fraser’s storm-blue eyes, gazing at him.

 

###

 

Ray wakes up, rubs his face and looks around. Fraser is gone. 

Somehow Ray has ended up in his bed, blankets tucked around him and — who is he kidding — the somehow was obviously a someone, namely Fraser, who had managed to move him without waking him, which means he must’ve been out cold. He’s sorry he’d missed that, Fraser carrying him, Fraser laying him gently in his bed, maybe even kissing him softly on the forehead. His sleeping self had all the luck.

The water glass and handkerchief are on his nightstand and the stripes of sunlight streaming through the window blinds have moved across the floor. Ray looks at the clock on the wall: two hours passed. He sits up, stretches, cracks his neck. He reaches for the water and downs it in one gulp.

He leans back against the pillows and sorts the memories from the day into two piles: good ones and bad ones. The bad ones — his panic attack, Fraser’s existential crisis — those he pushes out of his thoughts, letting them tangle up in the dreamcatcher that hangs on his wall, where they can keep company with the nightmares.

The good memories, those worth keeping, he takes out one by one and turns them over in his mind. The fuzzy baby chick with its two dads, petting the penguin — both good. Getting spit on by a whale wasn’t so great, but it was a new experience, so there was that. Fraser loaning him his coat, that was nice, and it smelled like Fraser, which was even nicer….

Ray pulls up the collar of his shirt and sniffs it to see if there’s any Fraser-smell left. A strange mix of scents fills his nostrils: leather, old fish, his own body odor and the stink of fear. He wrinkles his nose, unbuttons the shirt and throws it towards the hamper. A shower is definitely next on the list.

He strips off the rest of his clothes, turns on the tap and steps into the steamy spray. His tense muscles start to relax as he soaps up, rinses off. He lingers, lost in the steady drum and hiss of the water.

Other memories from the day come back to him, but quickly blur into fantasies. His mind goes to all those places it should never, ever go, and he lets it, because fuck this day and fuck panic attacks. He’s already been halfway to Hell once today: might as well finish the job.

He closes his eyes and remembers the taste of Fraser’s fingertips mingled with tart candy on his tongue. He reaches a hand to his mouth, pushing the tips of his own wet fingers between his lips, and sucks. He slides the other hand down his stomach, between his legs, curls his hand around himself, strokes slowly, sighs.

More memories surface, quicker now, one after another, melting into fantasy as fast as they arise: Fraser’s hands rove over his chest, fingernails grazing his nipples, making them hard, making him hard. He ghosts his own fingers over his body, leans into the pressure.

Still more thoughts — Fraser massaging his knee, halfway up the thigh, going higher, higher still, wanting him, wanting more. Ray grips himself more firmly, thrusts and twists, imagines it’s Fraser’s hand on him, tight and slippery. Slowly at first, then quick and rough, he squeezes and strokes, arching his hips faster and faster. The images shift and now it’s Fraser inside him, fucking him, _ just like that _ , deep and hard,  _ oh God yes do me,  _ harder,  _ fuckmefuckme _ and Fraser’s coming now, coming inside him _. _ He thrusts into his hand, bucks once, twice,  _ Jesusfuck!  _ he cries out, pulsing and shuddering, his knees gone weak, his breath in ragged gasps.

He leans back against the shower wall to keep from falling and feels his pulse slowing, breath calming, his cheeks flushed by a mixture of passion and shame. He’s done it now — crossed that double yellow line in his mind, no going back, hello Hell. He lets the water wash over him, cleansing him, sending his sins swirling down the drain.

###

 

Ray is toweling off from the shower when he hears a knock on the door.

“It’s me, Ray.” Fraser’s voice.

A wave of shame and regret rolls over him, an echo of that Morning After feeling. He shouldn’t have let his mind go where it did in the shower, he really shouldn’t — because now he has to face Fraser and pretend nothing happened. Which it didn’t — it was only fantasies after all, no harm no foul, right? He’s lying to himself and he knows it, but there’s nothing else for it, and Fraser’s waiting.

“Just a sec!”

He pulls on some sweats and a t-shirt, drapes the towel around his neck. He takes one end and rubs it over his hair, then unlocks the door.

Fraser is standing there holding two large white paper bags from a nearby burger joint. Delicious, greasy smells come out of them.

“Hungry?”

“Starving.” Ray grabs one of the bags and hopes Fraser doesn’t notice that the hungry look in his eyes is directed at him.

“I apologize for leaving you. I had to go take care of Diefenbaker.”

“Is he all right?” Ray walks to the kitchen, drops the bag on the table with a soft thud. He finishes toweling off his hair so it sticks up in all directions and throws the towel over the back of a kitchen chair.

Fraser follows him. “Yes, he’s fine. I left him with Turnbull. He says hello and he hopes you’re feeling better.”

“Turnbull or the wolf?”

Fraser sets the other bag down on the table, opens the kitchen cupboards and pulls out plates and cutlery.

“Oh. Diefenbaker, of course. Turnbull only ever just sits there looking like a bewildered moose.”

“He does at that,” Ray says, laughing. He dumps the contents of the bags — burgers and fries — onto two plates. “Tell him I said thanks.”

“I’ll do that. Are you feeling better after your nap?” Fraser sets a chocolate milkshake in front of him. “You look very relaxed.”

“Yeah. Relaxed.” Ray hides his embarrassment by ducking his head and taking a sip of his shake. “Yes indeedy, I am that.”

Fraser picks up his own milkshake, sucks hard on the thick red straw, cheeks hollowing, Adam’s apple bobbing, and Ray has to look away, ashamed of the thoughts racing through his head.

“How long did you sleep?”

Ray stuffs fries into his mouth. “About two hours. Guess I was more tired than I thought. How’d you lock the door, anyway?”

“I hope you don’t mind,” Fraser says, reaching into his jeans pocket. “I borrowed your key and had a copy made. Here you are.” He pulls out two keys and places them into Ray’s palm.

Ray’s keychain had been in the front left pocket of his pants. The only way Fraser could’ve gotten ahold of it was to…. Ray swallows. Not again. If he gets another boner the thin knit of his sweats isn’t going to hide a damn thing.

“Keep it.” He hands one key back to Fraser. It should probably bother him that Fraser stole his keys, but it doesn’t. Quite the opposite. He realizes with a flash of awareness that he’s wanted to give Fraser a key for a long time now, but the time never seemed right. It seems right, now. Everything does. Well, nearly everything, except for the small matter of him lusting after his partner.

Fraser regards the key like he’s been entrusted with the Crown Jewels. He smiles, pulls out his key ring with the RCMP fob on it and slides it on, right next to the Consulate key, in a place of honor.

Ray is mesmerized by the sensual motion of Fraser’s fingers gliding in and out of the keyring as he does this. Shit. Everything about Fraser is pure sex. Has become sex. Maybe on some level had always  _ been _ about sex but until today Ray hadn’t allowed himself to think that, to want it. And now he  _ needs  _ it, damn it.

That panic attack must’ve rewired his brain or something, or at least opened a door that wasn’t closing again anytime soon, because sex-Fraser-sex is all he can think about whenever Fraser’s in the room (and, if the shower was any indication, when he’s out of the room too)... and he hasn’t a clue what to do about it.

Ray eats his burger in three bites, finishes his milkshake, grabs a beer from the fridge and clears out of the kitchen as fast as he can.

 

###

 

He settles on the sofa, feet propped up on the coffee table, freshly-opened bottle of beer in one hand, remote in the other, hockey match on TV. Creature comforts, that’s what he needs. His newly-awakened dick can go back to sleep under the blankets if he can just get the alcohol into his bloodstream and the game into his eyeballs. 

Besides, he deserves a little slack-off time — it had been a hell of a day, after all. Who knew a day at the aquarium could be so freaking dramatic?

Oh. Right. Duh. He’s partners with Benton Fraser. Nothing is normal around him. Fraser is a black hole of not-normalness, the opposite of everything Ray thought he’d wanted in life when he took this undercover job. He should’ve known better than to expect anything else.

Then again, maybe the Stones were right: “You can’t always get what you want, but if you try sometimes, you might find, you get what you need.” Ray wonders if Fraser and his not-normalness is exactly what he needs right now. He wonders, too, if he might also get what he wants, just this once.

Speak of the Devil — Fraser wanders in from the kitchen, finished with the cleanup and the dishes.

“Do you need anything?”

Ray shakes his head no. Guilt rises in his gut. Fraser is obviously feeling bad about this morning and is trying to make it up to him.

“Seriously, Frase. I’m fine. You can stop now.”

“Stop what?”

“You know, being nice to me.”

Nobody’s ever been this good to him, except maybe his mom. He’s always had to look out for himself, more or less, even when he was with The Stella. She was tough, competent, and beautiful, never cruel but not known to go out of her way to be nice, either. Nice girls didn’t get to be Assistant State’s Attorneys.

“That’s not in my nature, Ray. I don’t think I could ever stop being kind to you, nor would I want to.”

He settles on the far end of the sofa, leans back against the arm, puts his sock-clad toes (Mountie issue red knit socks, naturally) up against Ray’s thigh, and studies him, thinking.

Ray studies Fraser in return, absently rubbing the tops of his feet. He notices that even Fraser’s toes are warm. Who has warm toes? Only a freak of nature, that’s who.

“You’re just doing all this ‘cause you feel guilty,” Ray says.

Fraser blushes, tugs an earlobe, a sure sign he’s embarrassed or lying. Or both.

“Not entirely,” he says.

“What do you mean, not entirely?”

“I do take responsibility for what happened to us on the Henry Allen, and consequently for your resulting anxiety.”

Ray’s face hardens. “I did that of my own free will. I did my job. You don’t get to take that from me.” Don’t be an ass, Fraser, not now.

Fraser opens his mouth and closes it twice, like a fish. “You’re right. I apologize for being presumptuous.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Nevertheless, I do feel bad that you’ve suffered unduly by your association with me. I’m fairly certain that this,” he says, gesturing to himself, “isn’t what you signed up for.”

“Fair enough,” Ray concedes. No one in their right mind would sign up for this. “You  _ are _ a force of nature. Or the supernatural. Sometimes I don’t know which. Are you _sure_ you’re a hundred percent human?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” Fraser says, touching the side of his face. “I do make mistakes. I’ve admitted as much.”

Ray laughs. “Admitted as much. Yeah, like twice, maybe.”

Fraser’s face turns as red as his socks. “I am working on it.”

“I know, I know,” Ray pats Fraser’s feet again. “So, um, if you’re not doing this out of guilt, then why?”

“Do you really need to ask?”

“I wouldn’t ask if I knew the answer, Fraser.”

“Well, Ray, I would have thought that was obvious. I do what I do because you’re my partner. And my friend.” There’s a long pause. “And I care about you. Very much so.”

Ray’s heart skips a beat. His mind is racing so fast that words, the words he wants to utter but can’t bring himself to, trip over each other and become useless tangled heaps of letters in his brain. All he can think to say is something stupid, something mundane, something to fill the pregnant silence filling the air between them.

“Let’s just watch the game, OK?”

 

###

 

The last point scored, Ray switches off the TV, finishes his beer, sets the bottle down, and flings the remote into a crack of the couch where it will probably get lost for a week.

He braces himself for whatever’s next. It’s getting late in the day and they’ve run out of distractions, run out of excuses. It’s speak up or shut up time, though where to start is anyone’s guess.

Fraser is still staring at the blank television screen, lost in thought. Ray sneaks a look at his profile — wavy dark chestnut-brown hair, perfect square jaw with a dusting of stubble on it, full pink lips… but. There’s a look of sadness, of longing in his eyes. He’d seen that same expression on Fraser’s face earlier today, with the whale.

“Are you happy here?” It’s a question Ray’s afraid to ask, but he really, really needs to know the answer.

Fraser turns to face him. “I’m not sure what you’re asking.”

“Here. In Chicago.”

“Sometimes, yes. But sometimes,” Fraser sighs and rubs his chest, right over his heart, “I really miss my home.”

“You and that whale.” Ray can barely say it.

Fraser nods, his expression wistful. The look on Fraser’s face confirms Ray’s worst fear, that Fraser will leave him, sooner or later. Ray Vecchio will come back and Fraser will join him or go home, and that will be the end of it. An ache fills his chest, threatening to swallow him whole. He’s only just now figured out that he wants Fraser, that he needs him as so much more than a work partner and friend, and at the same time it’s painfully clear that this cannot, should not, will not happen, because fate demands it, and for the sake of Fraser’s own happiness.

“Well, for what it’s worth, I’m glad you’re here now,” Ray stammers, “With me, I mean. And, you know, mi casa es su casa….”

“I’m pleased to hear that, Ray.” He strokes a finger along the edge of a couch cushion, back and forth. “That means a great deal to me. I am deeply gratified to be here with you, too.”

“By the way, I never said — thanks for your help today.”

“You’re more than welcome.” Fraser puts his feet down, moves a little closer to Ray on the couch, looks into his eyes.

“I…” Ray licks his lips. “For a second I thought I was a goner. I couldn’t breathe.”

“You were never in any real danger, Ray,” he cocks his head, the tip of his tongue between his teeth. “But if you had needed rescue breathing I would have done that for you if necessary. Without hesitation.”

“You mean, like… buddy breathing?”

“Yes.” Fraser’s gaze flicks down to Ray’s mouth, back to his eyes.

Ray blushes to the tips of his ears and blood rushes to his abdomen. “Still….”

Fraser raises an eyebrow.

“If that panic thing was all in my head, how do I know what’s real anymore? How can I trust myself?”

“You will learn to ride it, like you learned to ride a motorcycle. It will get easier.”

“You sure about that?” Ray is doubtful, but willing to listen. Sometimes you gotta learn to bend with the breeze so you don’t break.

“Yes.”

Fraser moves to sit facing him, criss-crossing his legs so that his knees rest against Ray’s thighs. Body heat radiates through their clothes and burns Ray’s skin where they touch.

“There’s something else I’ve been meaning to tell you,” Fraser says.

Ray just looks at him, waiting.

“I saw how you responded when we made physical contact today.”

Ray casts his eyes downward, suddenly self-conscious. Of course. Fraser-The-Tracker had seen, heard, felt, smelled it all: every blush, every hitch of breath, every goosebump, every trickle of sweat.

“I didn’t know you felt that way,” Fraser says.

Ray’s heart is pounding in his chest. He feels like he’s standing on the edge of a cliff. Fall or fly, either way, he’s going down. 

“Yeah, well, now you know. Please don’t hate me.”

Fraser puts a hand on Ray’s shoulder and looks him straight in the eyes. “We’re partners, Ray. I could never hate you.” He touches his tongue to his lips. “Besides, it would be hypocritical of me to reject you for something I, myself, experience.” 

Ray’s head jerks backwards. “You what?” He searches Fraser’s eyes. There is no hint of lying, no eyebrow rubbing, no ear-pulling, no flat Mountie face. Ray swallows. His mouth goes dry and his pulse rate shoots up again. “Is this for real?” he asks, his voice strained, breath caught in his throat. 

Fraser nods. “If you want it to be.”

Ray is holding his breath, not ready to believe, but desperately wanting to. If they do this, if they cross this line and Fraser leaves, it could be even worse than losing Stella. It might just kill him. Then again, if they don’t do this and Fraser leaves anyway…. The words of The Cooler King himself spring to mind: “Attack life. It’s going to kill you anyway.” Might as well carpe the fucking diem. 

“You sure?” 

Fraser nods. “Very sure.” 

He slides his hand from Ray’s shoulder to the nape of his neck, runs his fingers up into his hair, making tiny movements, sending tingles down his spine. With his other hand he strokes the back of Ray’s wrist, tracing the silver beads on his bracelet, and gazes into his face. 

“I want it to be real.” Ray covers Fraser’s hand with his own. “But...”

Worry lines furrow Fraser’s brow. “But…?”

“You’re not happy here. It’s not what you want. You have to leave.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“But someday, you’ll get a transfer or you’ll miss your old life so much that you’ll go. I’m not sure I can deal with that.”

“That day is not today. And if that day ever does come, we can figure it out together. Let tomorrow worry about itself.” 

Fraser leans in, brushes his nose against Ray’s ear, traces the curve around it. The hair on the back of Ray’s neck stands up. 

“Tell me, Ray. What do  _ you _ want?” 

“This.” Ray gasps as Fraser tongues his ear. “Us.” Another lick, another gasp. “You.”

“Your breathing is shallow,” Fraser says, his voice velvet and dark.

Ray’s chest tightens. “Maybe I need…” he stops mid-sentence when Fraser slides a hand under his shirt, caresses his stomach, “...some of that…,” Fraser places tiny kisses along his jaw, “...extra lung capacity…” Fraser’s lips graze the corner of Ray’s mouth, “...you’re always bragging about.”

“Are you asking, Ray?” Fraser’s breath on his lips, so close he can taste it.

_ Dear God yes.  _ Ray gives the barest nod.

Fraser cups Ray’s face with both hands, puckers his lips, and blows softly against his mouth. Then he brushes his parted lips against Ray’s, soft and dry, the gentlest invitation.

Ray opens to him and sighs, and the kiss is sweet and warm and it is everything. All the words they’re not saying, the words they should have said long ago but didn’t — they’re all here, now, in the press of lips and slide of tongues and hot breath on each other’s skin.

_ I love you, Fraser, I love you so much. _

“And I you, Ray.” 

He hadn’t realized he’d said that out loud. Maybe he hadn’t. Maybe the kiss said it for him.

Fraser puts an arm behind Ray’s head, scoots them down onto the sofa so that Ray is stretched out on his back and Fraser is on top of him, propped on his elbows. Ray moves his hands around to Fraser’s butt and wriggles his hands into the back pockets of his jeans, cupping his ass with his fingers. He can’t help but smile. He’s waited for this for so long.

Fraser raises an eyebrow.

“My hands. Your pockets,” Ray says, a smirk on his face. The smirk vanishes when Fraser kisses down the side of Ray’s neck and tongues the tender spot where his throat meets the collarbone. Ray’s eyes flutter closed in a moment of breathless ecstasy, a moment that lasts until morning.

 

### EPILOGUE ###

 

A year later, midsummer, somewhere in the Northwest Territories….

The sun is setting, pale blue fading to orange. Slanting rays cast long shadows through the trees along the riverbank.

Fraser and Ray stroll beside the rushing waters, listening as it riffles over stones and logs. Wind sighs in the conifer trees. Damselflies and clouds of insects hover and dart through the air, while unseen tiny creatures skitter out of the way at their feet.

Fraser leans down, plucks a stone from a sandbar. The rock is round, worn smooth by the endless flow of water and time. It gleams black as though polished, with two perfect white lines of quartz running through it. He reaches out his hand and offers the stone to Ray.

Ray searches Fraser’s face, questioning. “What’s that for?”

“Pretend you’re a penguin.” Fraser lifts his eyebrows and his mouth curls into a smile.

Ray scrunches his forehead in confusion, then his eyes fly open wide with understanding. His face lights up with a dazzling grin, flashing white teeth. He accepts the gift, glances down at the stone in his hand, and back up at Fraser.

Ray nods once, yes, and Fraser beams at him.

Ray tosses the stone, catches it, clutches it in his fist, then touches the fist to his heart. He smiles shyly and puts the stone into his pocket for safekeeping, more precious than any engagement ring could ever be. He wraps his arms around Fraser, who embraces him. They kiss through their smiles, then break apart. 

Ray reaches out his hand towards Fraser, who takes it. They interlace their fingers, turn, and walk along the riverbank towards the setting sun. 

 

The End

**Author's Note:**

> Story inspired by Chicago’s Shedd Aquarium and real-life same-sex penguin pairs all over the globe.


End file.
